The Last Year
by Hekate1308
Summary: As disconcerting as it was, the greatest mind was bound by the restrictions its physical form thrust upon it; however, he had had to admit after the diagnosis that, while he had been perfectly aware of the possibility, he had never really considered himself to be in danger. Mycroft Holmes character piece. Rated for character death.


**Author's note: Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry. Short because longer would be too painful.**

As disconcerting as it was, the greatest mind was bound by the restrictions its physical form thrust upon it; however, he had had to admit after the diagnosis that, while he had been perfectly aware of the possibility, he had never really considered himself to be in danger. He had, in perhaps the most human mistake he had ever made, assumed he would live forever, or at least reach the average age of a man of his position and nationality.

Instead, he had noticed the exhaustion and nausea that suddenly became a constant companion of his, and had made an appointment with one of the best doctors in Britain.

By this time, he had known what was wrong, and had only waited for the confirmation.

Cancer.

Inoperable.

He chose not to disclose the information to anyone. The tumour in his stomach would kill him before his symptoms truly became a problem, Doctor Trevelyan had assured him when he had insisted on precise information; in fact, he had two years and three months left. It was the closest he could get to an exact estimate, at least.

Anthea suspected the truth. He could see it in her face when he declined yet another lunch, or when he came back from the bathroom looking slightly green. It didn't surprise him. She had always been the best and most intelligent of his employees.

What did surprise him was the pain in her eyes, the way she moved around him, unsure, afraid even. He hadn't thought he had inspired affection among his staff. He had never wished to do so.

He didn't tell Sherlock either. They didn't see each other very often, and he was confident that he could hide the signs during the short time they spent together on cases. If John Watson had been more observant (and less occupied with other things) he would have feared the doctor to find out, but as it was, Sherlock's former flatmate barely paid attention to him when they met. Perhaps he subconsciously still resented not being told Sherlock was alive while Mycroft had helped him disappear and financed his two years away.

Two months after his diagnosis, he came to realize that he had underestimated DI Lestrade. He had had him brought to the Diogenes Club because of a small matter concerning a case Sherlock was working on, and he immediately told him, "You lost weight."

"So I did, Inspector. Now, as to the case – "

The DI kept staring at him strangely throughout their meeting. When it was done, he reached out and squeezed his shoulder; Mycroft was almost startled.

DI Lestrade cleared his throat.

"I'll look after Sherlock. I promise."

Yes, he had underestimated him, he thought as he watched him leave.

Sherlock, of course –

Sherlock. He had tried, he had been convinced he had hidden his disease from him.

And then, one evening, he arrived at 221B to find Sherlock once again in a drug-induced trance and read the list. This time, his brother thankfully hadn't overdosed, and Mycroft had every reason to think the usage had to do with boredom, after all, Sherlock hadn't had a case in over a week.

He was wrong. The very first thing on the list was a name.

Sidney Farber.

The father of modern chemotherapy.

Mycroft would have been aware if this pertained to any case Sherlock was or had been working on. It didn't. There was no reason for him to write down this name. Unless...

So he knew. In his subconscious, Sherlock knew.

They didn't talk about it, but from the moment he woke up, Sherlock took every case Mycroft gave him without complaint.

It was the only acknowledgement Mycroft needed.

Well, that and that one day, right after Sherlock had delivered a case file, he said calmly, "One year and seven months."

"Five months" Mycroft replied automatically.

Sherlock smiled weakly.

"A bet, then."

It turned out he only had one year. He had hoped for more, for the whole two years, and it gave him little satisfaction to know that he had won the bet.

Their mother and father came to London for a week, and if they were suspicious because of his invitation, they said nothing. Mother might have known more than Father; but as she admonished him under her breath because he had lost too much weight, he heard her telling him to go his own way when he was a boy and he understood she meant to give him the death of his choice as well. He only realized they must have spoken about it when Father hugged him goodbye. They hadn't touched him in years, obeying his wishes in that respect; but when his father turned away, there were tears in his eyes, and he sounded breathless as he told him "I'm proud of you."

It had never meant quite so much as this time.

He didn't take any time off work. He had to make sure England would run smoothly without him. Thankfully, he had already trained enough people to ensure that the country would be safe under Anthea's watchful eye.

He had always been very careful to monitor his body, not being able to risk his well-being as Sherlock was; and he soon realized when he would die.

It was highly unlikely that he would survive the weekend. This Friday was the last day he would ever set foot in the office he had spent over twenty years in.

He thought he was the last one to leave, as always, but Anthea was waiting for him.

"The car is waiting outside" she informed him, as if she had to.

He nodded, told her good night and moved past her, using his umbrella to hold himself up.

"Sir..."

He turned around.

He could have sworn there were tears in his PA's eyes, but she blinked and they were gone.

"Thank you."

He nodded. "You as well."

They left it at that.

He decided he shouldn't be surprised when he entered his living room and found Sherlock sitting there, violin in his hand, waiting for him.

"You won the bet" his brother said.

"It seems like it" he replied easily.

"Are you in pain?"

It was not a question Sherlock would normally have asked. He shook his head. He didn't take enough pain medication to influence his mind, but he was still somewhat comfortable.

"Where would you like to die?" was Sherlock's next question. Mycroft appreciated it. There was nothing they had to say to each other now; they weren't like ordinary people, who had to make big scenes when someone was dying.

"There is little point in going to bed".

He would have to be prepared for burial anyway; whether he wore his work clothes or his pyjamas was not important. And he certainly didn't need to be comfortable.

He would lie still long enough in the years to come.

It was a sentimental, foolish thought, of course. Maybe it was his brain already giving up, dying one cell at a time. If so, he was glad that it would soon be over. The worst death he could have imagined for himself would have been slowly losing his mind.

"Would you play for me?" he asked, and Sherlock complied. He recognized the piece immediately. It was one of Sherlock's first compositions. He had played it for him on Mycroft's twelfth birthday.

And as his awareness dimmed, he found himself glad it was following him into the dark.


End file.
